4.30.2005

I have recently discovered a very profitable way of deciphering the true meaning of things:

Take a person's (or organization's) initials (for example, as explained earlier, Terri Schiavo would be TS), then follow the logical alphabetical order to the next set of initials in the "row" (TS would become UT)...

The new initials are the initials of the "true" correspondent (via contra-saussaurian metaleptic overflow).

Thus the truth of Terri Schiavo, TS, is in fact University Towers, UT, my apartment building. In a land where the blind have thankless tongues and the fat are filling themselves on the aura of grease, a logic as non-plussable as this one is the only alternative.

4.29.2005

Nostradamus and Miss Nostradamus were walking on Crown Street today, when who should we pass, but Kingspawn. We exchanged passing hellos, and as I got a little bit down the street, much to my delight, I heard a voice shout the following:

You won't find Hitler Street in Germany these days; squares dedicated to the Nazi leader were also renamed as soon as the Third Reich fell and Adolf as a first name is now all but extinct.

Amazin' stuff. It's hard for me to express how different my college education would have been without the global obsession with Mr. A. H. As a result of fascism, classes on Heidegger's philosophy are now devoted completely to the question of his Nazihood... Which is, of course, how it should be, but one wonders if perhaps a deeper, unbiased interpretation of Martini Heidegger might lead us to a more complete picture of the fascist elements in his thought... I suggest a close reading of Heidegger's letters to Hannah Arendt for those interested in a further explanation. Some thoughts on this issue can also be found here.

Anyway, Histeria aside, using Hitler as the sole moral sounding board for all of politics is like putting blinders on a cow and expecting it not to get tipped.

4.28.2005

On Tuesday morning I found Terri there.I found her limbs sprawled out, her silken hairAfray, unwashed, a mess… I must confessI did not know how I could best addressThis horrid scene, this wreck of once-loved life…Why not take me, why did you take my wife?

The Schindlers I see near me every hourWaving the flag of every Christian powerIn hopes of changing by their will the fateThat’s left us with a separate church and state."The constitution must be overhauled,All secular governments will be dissolved."

Oh Schindlers, if you knew the emptinessI’ve known, you’d leave me to my lonely mistress.Terri’s life passed with flying colors, with flashAnd media interview, but as she is as ash,So she was in flesh for fifteen years,Silent and mute, unaware of your smiles and tears.

I knew what I knew when I pulled the plug, and youIgnored the basic fact, what all knew throughAnd through was true. Good-bye, you pirates, good-bye,I leave like a raven with a gleam in his eyeThat comes not from knowledge but pain and death,But at least I draw a hearty, free-aired breath…

Soon after my visitor last night, I noticed a thinly lingering shade sulking about behind the effluence of Terri's angelic cohorts: it was the ghost of Jerry Orbach, formerly of Law and Order, now of death. He was smoking a cigarette, observing my rapt infatuation with Terri with a hint of bemusement, and coughing. After several minutes of watching, he crawled out the window onto my balcony and began tapping on the railing of said balcony with a surprisingly intricate and African pattern... Distracted from Terri by the funk, I turned my head away from her, looking for my guitar, and when I turned back, much to my distress, Terri was gone. Like Orpheus turning from Euridyce, my glance sent Terri back to heaven, ripped her image from my mind...

First there is Terri, forever enshived in our memories and minds thanks to brilliant and significant overexposure.

Then, of course, there is Saint Foucault, a man whose innovative morality led him to plunge into the San Francisco bathhouse scene in the early eighties, despite full knowledge of the potential consequences for himself and his many anonymous partners.

Let's not forget Roland Barthes, whose lunch with Francois Mitterand left him so depressed he simply walked into traffic.

And then there is Joseph Kennedy Jr, whose desire for enshivement led him to pilot a giant plane stuffed full of TNT over the English Channel towards a secreted German Cave Gun in the early 40's... Needless to say, the Bomb Plane exploded before it reached its target, much like his ill-fated nephew's plane off the coast of the Vineyard. Obviously the nephew is a kind of second-tier Death/Media saint, along with JFK Sr. of course.

While we're at it, let's include the tragic Bobby Phills, whose late night drag-race allegedly against teammate David Wesley led to an unfortunate run in with a tree. Bobby never got his Porshe into 4th gear.

Finally (for now, there are many others), the unfortunate poet Weldon Kees, whose car was found deserted beneath the Golden Gate Bridge in 1955. Though derided by some as a mere 3rd tier modernist, Keyes was an astonishingly vivid and brilliant artist in several genres (film, music, painting, poetry), and has been unjustly forgotten by time. His connection with Terri Schiavo is a bit more tenuous than the others, all of which should be obvious enough, but I'll keep him in just to give my boy a little bit of airplay, so to speak...

Coincidence? The pronunciation of Terri's last name is very indicative of her plight in life and status in death.

To call Terri shy is to really get at the heart of the debate about her pre-death mental faculties (the debate about her post death mental faculties is over. They're real people, in heaven, very, very real!). Perhaps it was simply a reticence, a turning inwards towards the light of God (as in Milton) that prevented Terri from responding to her doctors (ie persecutors of people of faith) and relatives (canonizers).

I think it is ultimately fitting that we can all, at our own pace, stumble onto this relevant and important pun, Terri Shy-votress, and better understand what it is to be silent, to be a true partisan of the Death/Media Liberation Front, and to be, in the the eyes of god, devoted to the everlasting silence that is eternity.

Many of you have written to me asking about this: What do those initials of that famous poet really stand for... And by really, friendly pets, they meant "prophetically"...

Could it be the poet's name was in fact an encoded prophecy of our patron saintess of Death/Media? Think about it T(erri) S(chiavo) Eliot. The Wasteland? Madame Sosostris, Mr. Eugenides the Smyrna Merchant, Tiresias the bigendered fortune teller... If you are going to sit here and seriously tell me that all of these things do not point directly (that is indirectly) to Terri's plight and later resurection (ala a certain drowned Phoenician Sailor in the Fire Sermon), then I'll quit watching 24 for a whole week.

In other Schiavo related news, Ghostbusters III has cast Terri in the role of "Marmaduke the Ash-Faced Ghost"... Contract negotiations are underway. Nostradamus predicts a blockbuster.

You don't have to be a prophet to decide that, in the long run, this is a major blow to the future of Texas's foster children:

From April 20, USA Today

Talton wouldn't comment Wednesday, but during debate on the bill the day before he said, "I don't think it is right for young children to be exposed to this type of behavior when they are young and innocent."

That may be what you think, but interestingly enough I don't think its right to have children kept out of potentially loving foster homes because of your disgusting, bigot morality.

Hurray for Texas, the cess pit of injustice rotting on our nation's body politic like a case of venereal disease. Good work. Keep it up, you evil bigots.

When I was young, I wondered when it would be that Terri Schiavo would become a household name.

Often, in my sleep, I would lie awake and imagine someone like Terri, someone who in my early years, I knew could only be Terri if the proper circumstances prevailed.

It wasn't the broken, failed bulimic Terri I imagined.

It was Terri in heaven, with a choir of angels singing at her side, and her long, finely thin fingers plucking at the strings of a golden harp in melodious counterpoint to their diaphonous screams...

It was Terri raining down fire and hell and my feet drenched in the dog mire of some god awful saturday when all of us back at the camp fire really smelled the pine and hated how it felt on our fingers.

It was the Mary Tyler Moore show in its entirety.

There were many signs that Terri was coming, silent behemoth, second coming of sorts. There were many signs, and now we raise the bread-crumb, Terri, your cross, the cross beneath which we will all crossover.

4.27.2005

"Don't waste too much more time thinking about me. After the fall of secularism, all fingers in all textbooks will point in one unalterably life-bearing direction: towards the gateway out of life afforded to one not ready to leave, to the bread crumbs sprinkled for pigeons that, if liquified, could have fed me, to the stairway to heaven that is the eternally replayed vision of my recognition scene... The ring ceremony of the heart, in which my soul was pledged to celebrity, was a more profound secular act than even its most vitriolic religious supporters could possibly comprehend. When secularism has died, life itself has become a shadow that rules us all."

4.26.2005

It's interesting, in pondering my past work and its interpretations, to consider, honestly, the question of Histery.

That is not a typo, beloved sapling, it refers to earlier prophecies of mine that predict the coming of a terrible tyrant who I called Hister.

Naturally, around seventy years ago, when a certain leader whose name begins with H (hint: it ends in "itler") came to power, his devious and insidious publicity staff used my prophecies of Hister to legitimate their man...

I'm here to set the record strait. In my "Hister" prophecies I did not refer in any way to the wicked A. H. My Hister prophecies in fact were in fact about a friend of mine who was suffering from a rather severe bout of hysteria... Hence the cunning pun, including my friends honorific title in english (mister) within a code-studded pun-playing H...

And a climate and century of horror on my shoulders, oh, how dubious, who can hear Nostradamus weep?

It is difficult to wake up to a day's worth of unalterably vague presentiments about the future and to try to make sense of them in time to help my devoted followers... Fear not, I push forward, against the welter and flux of my own novelty, and brow-beat those who would forestall my economically sophisticated conundrums.

Nostradamus predicts:

In an age of life, where all that is valued is life, mind will find it's home only in ruminations on the past and death. Witness: The New Historicism.

In an age of death, where the swell of death is so severe as to seem actual, it is art that becomes the only true irrelevance in the eyes of media-incorporate-text-God.

Geography is only going to become more of a mystery, now that it has been secured.

Myopia is a course of activity whose endgame is blistering and plagued.

Constantinople will rise beneath the ninth apple tree in the form of a splendid, supine treasure.

4.25.2005

When the senate majority leader can appear with a group of would-be theocrats making appeals to alter permanently the senate rules regarding philibustering by "those against people of faith" we have finally reached a state of total lunacy.

What they say is as shallow as a river of lies drenched in the blood of a thousand children.

They cut with each stab the freedom they claim to defend.

The air is unharmed, and in the clear crystal of thought, perhaps, one can sense still the skittering echo of reason.

The spirit of TS lives in the rogue rhetorical butchery of the mainstream (I read this[them] as a secret attempt at self-castration; a willfull denial of the adopted topos, a gnomic enclosure in the shell of a snail)...

Toward the bottom of the ladder, Frist is sinking, sliding without concept into inevitable consequence.